


necessary means

by peakgay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Power Dynamics, Praise, Spanking, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/pseuds/peakgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hamilton, come in.” Washington’s voice is warm, if not tired. He nods as Hamilton hesitates in the doorway and steps up to the desk, shutting the door behind him. “You look tense.”</p><p>Hamilton laughs, though he can sense the anger edging in his voice. Washington raises an eyebrow and sets down the quill he had been holding, peering up at Hamilton with curiosity and concern.</p><p>“Tense,” Hamilton repeats. “Yes.”</p><p>“Alexander,” Washington says in a low, soft voice. “Tell me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	necessary means

**Author's Note:**

> it's spanking. i don't think much more needs to be said.

Hamilton shuffles just slightly to the right in his seat, taps his fingers across the top of the desk, runs his tongue over his top row of teeth and then, without really meaning to, sighs audibly. Washington looks up at him from his desk on the other side of the room, nearest the window. The space is wide - it influences the entire feeling of the room, at least for Hamilton - much like Washington himself does. The president sits, unmoving, eyes still trained on Hamilton until, in a deep voice, he says, “Alexander.”

Hamilton knows the tone intimately. He’s heard it dozens of times over the years, sometimes to his excitement and joy, often times to his frustration.

After a moment of silence between them, he murmurs, “Sorry, sir.” He’s not adverse to what the tone implies, exactly, but even now a sense of shame stirs in his chest, then his gut, pressing him to focus on the work in front of him.

Washington hums and doesn’t say anything else. Hamilton resists the pull on his gut - he wants to stand up. He presses his palms against the edge of the desk and sighs again, though he holds the breath a little more tightly, more controlled.

“Hamilton,” Washington says some time later. “The time.”

Hamilton jolts in his seat and glances at the heavy clock that rests near the edge of the president’s desk. He realizes, with a start, that it is nearly eight in the evening, and Washington is looking at him with an arched eyebrow and a dry smile.

“It’s late, Alexander. Maybe you should retire.”

Hamilton can barely fathom such a thing; the idea of sleeping seems ludicrous and impossible, but he nods anyway, gathering and putting away his things. 

“Good night,” he murmurs, nodding to Washington, who clasps his hands but remains otherwise unmoving at his desk.

-

Normally, Hamilton loathes Jefferson.

He’s a smart man, funny too. He gets along quite well with Madison and Adams, much to Hamilton’s frustration, and though Jefferson and Washington disagree on many fundamentals, they never seem to reach the same heated temperaments as the secretaries do.

On this Friday morning, Jefferson sniping at him about the selfishness of a national bank, about the destruction of this very foundation of a country (and Hamilton wants to say, _I’m sorry, where were you when this country was being founded?_ ), Hamilton is relieved.

“You claim my explanations are too complicated, yet complain you don’t understand the detail!” he half-shouts, watching Jefferson’s eyebrows shoot up as he smirks. “Perhaps Mr. Madison can teach you how to read once more - is it simple English you struggle with? Perhaps if I penned it in French, you’d understand?”

“Your details are sour,” Jefferson says, voice like poison and just as thick, “and damned _boring_. I doubt you could even convince Mr. President to sit down with a stack that _heavy_.”

Hamilton twitches despite himself, bites the inside of his lip. There’s something fulfilling about arguing with Jefferson, being able to snap and yell for as long as he can, until he’s emotionally exhausted and finally empty of all the pent-up anger, but the words carry an additional meaning that Hamilton has to put out of his mind.

“I’ve explained my concepts more time than I can count,” Hamilton says now, his voice low. Jefferson stands, a smooth motion, and steps across the long table separating them.

He’s close to Hamilton now, tilting his head, only one eyebrow raised as he smiles. “Alex-ander,” he says, enunciating hard on the ‘X,’ “Why don’t you call Mr. President in, have him settle the matter? Or are you afraid he won’t take your side?” Jefferson pouts, leaning on the table, and Hamilton takes a step back. “It doesn’t matter, Hamilton - Congress won’t approve your plan, and if they won’t approve your plan...well, who cares if anyone understands it?” He smiles then, mouth twisting, and pats Hamilton on the shoulder like they’re familiar friends and leaves the room.

The debate - if Hamilton could even call it that - leaves him twitching and irritable, and that’s how he enters Washington’s office upstairs minutes later.

“Hamilton, come in.” Washington’s voice is warm, if not tired. He nods as Hamilton hesitates in the doorway and steps up to the desk, shutting the door behind him. “You look tense.”

Hamilton laughs, though he can sense the anger edging in his voice. Washington raises an eyebrow and sets down the quill he had been holding, peering up at Hamilton with curiosity and concern.

“Tense,” Hamilton repeats. “Yes.”

“Alexander,” Washington says in a low, soft voice. “Tell me.”

He hesitates for a moment. It seems - unfair, to bring the President into matters such as this. He drags his teeth across his bottom lip and shrugs one shoulder. Washington doesn’t buy it, his eyes narrowing further. He motions for Hamilton to step further into the room and says, again, his voice more commanding now, “Tell me.”

Hamilton breaks with embarrassing ease. “It’s Jefferson.” He hates his voice. He sounds like a child; God, he sounds like Philip when Philip is frustrated and annoyed at another child at school, or on their street. He flinches and starts thumbing with a button at the bottom of his shirt. “And I’m exhausted, sir.”

Washington nods. “Of course you are,” he says, and there’s ease in his voice, comfort that is almost familiar. He pushes himself to his feet, slowly and with a sigh. Even in his age, Hamilton notices the President’s tight, relentless posture. Shoulders perfectly straight and forward; his neck seems long and elegant, his thick eyebrows setting his stern expression. When he stands, he stands at over six feet, and Hamilton knows that really, the distance between them isn’t much.

But it feels infinite, looking at him now.

“I’m trying to compromise,” Hamilton murmurs. He looks down at the desk, avoiding Washington’s hard-set gaze. “Find some way that I can convince the majority...” He scoffs then. “Majority. It’s a stupid rule.”

Washington hums. Hamilton regrets his petulance and he takes several steps closer to the desk.

“Sir,” he says.

“Hamilton.”

“Sometimes,” Hamilton says, letting the words hesitate, trying not to sound so desperate this time. “I need...to be silent.”

“A rare occasion,” Washington says, but then he nods and with his slightest of movements, the tone of the room changes. Hamilton’s mind blurs as Washington’s gentle voice says, “Come here, Alexander.” He seems so distant, and Hamilton watches as the President curves his fingers and then glides his palm over the desk. He shifts a small stack of papers and an inkwell in front of him, and Hamilton takes slow steps, his shoulders and back straightened, and stands by Washington’s side.

Washington says nothing.

“Would you like to be bent over the desk?”

Alexander’s cheeks flush with the suggestion. The way the President says it, as if it’s something rudimentary, not something heated and shameful and proof of Hamilton’s embarrassing lack of self control. It makes Hamilton want to beg, to cry, to crawl under sheets or beneath the desk and never move again.

He doesn’t; he obeys the order that is implicit in the President’s tone.

His face burns, though it’s nothing new. Perhaps the shame is a good thing. He’s already pondering, thinking too fast, going so quickly each thought lasts only a fraction of a second. Washington is doing this for him. Because of him. Sometimes the line blurs, maybe he’s already crossed it, maybe there wasn’t really a line to begin with.

Maybe it’s done with love and affection. Even after all these years, Hamilton finds it difficult to know. Sometimes Washington strokes his hair afterward. Kisses the shell of his ear, rests warm hands on his bare hips. Sometimes he doesn’t do those things.

He rests his elbows on the desk, avoiding papers. It’s a bit of an awkward angle - he can’t lie flat his chest and stomach without having to bend his knees and losing what little balance he maintains - but he makes do. The desk is smooth, mahogany, perhaps a bit of a splurge but Washington is the President. Hamilton rests his hot cheek against the cool wood and sighs.

Washington brushes his hair away from where it rests on his chin.

“Are you alright?” The question - it’s unprecedented. 

Hamilton blinks, then squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is rough already. He scrapes his nails against the desk, clenching his fist. He imagines Washington’s face, though he tries to ban the image. 

“Please, remove your breeches.”

Hamilton shivers, though he grits his teeth enough to prevent the crawling up his spine from being obvious. His entire body fluctuates from hot to cold, and he takes a moment to follow the gentle order, though it’s more challenging with his eyes shut and his hands shaking.

Washington is patient. He must be, to stand by and let this happen.

The coattails of his jacket hang loose at his sides now as Hamilton pushes his breeches down his thighs and onto the floor. He burns with the exposure. The years of familiarity don’t matter. That they’ve fucked in the Mount Vernon kitchen in the latest hours of night doesn’t matter. Tents don’t matter. None of it matters.

Washington presses a kiss to the top of Hamilton’s spine and hushes him. Hamilton flinches and breathes deep. His cock is hard, and at this angle, he’d had to fold his knees to be pressed against the desk. Washington can see everything, surely.

The President is silent, and then confirms Hamilton’s suspicion by wrapping his fist around the base of Hamilton’s cock and jerking it slowly.

Hamilton bites back a groan, a flare of heat in his groin crawling up to his stomach and then his chest, churning. He rolls his eyes back in his head, still closed, trying to regain composure. The sparks of heat in his skin itch, and he wants to writhe away from Washington.

Washington chuckles. “I know you don’t want it to be complete misery,” he says, still stroking Hamilton, thumbing over the tip. His grip is too loose, his strokes too languid, and all Hamilton wants is for Washington to strike him.

The thought, explicit as it is, shocks him. He turns his head slightly so he can push his forehead into the desk, grinding his teeth together. Washington lets go of him and moves his hand to squeeze Hamilton’s ass.

“Relax,” he says. “Fifteen. Shall I count?”

Hamilton coughs a laugh. The number is strange, uneven, and he breathes in deep before responding. “Count?” he whispers, hoarse. “I...I don’t care.” He’s been dealt more than that before. Some occasions call for more, some for less. They have spoken and unspoken agreements about the act.

Then Washington’s palm hits him, and Hamilton jerks forward with a haggard gasp and a moan and whispers, “Count, dammit, please.”

“One.”

The second blow is to the same side; it isn’t quite as hard, but his body is stinging now, and the heat is wrapping itself around his mind, making him foggy. The pressure, the strength of Washington’s palm - it’s incredible, damned near intoxicating. He craves, in a sudden burst, a full glass of rich, red wine. The kind they only serve at dinners where they’re all meant to reserve themselves, be composed and kind if not full of sharp, unhinged wit.

“Two.”

Washington’s voice is so distant. Hamilton sighs.

“Three.” A slight pause before the fourth strike. “Four.” Both on the opposite side. Hard and intense. Hamilton’s cock twitches. Five, six, and seven come in quick succession and Washington hushes him through them. “Five - Six. _Seven_.” The words are unreal. Hamilton knows he’s panting. The silence is so close, but the fingers in his vision don’t quite catch it. He’s afraid of what he must look like. Has it been mere seconds? Minutes? It must have been an hour. Washington must not be counting right. “Shh, shh.”

Eight lands between his thigh and his ass, the sensitive slope of lean muscle and skin that’s not quite as tight as the rest of his leg, and at first it’s blissful retreat but then the pain spikes and Hamilton isn’t sure if he’s even making noise anymore. Is he screaming? Washington wouldn’t let him scream and there haven’t been any fingers in his mouth to distract him. He should be able to remember. He should.

“Eight.” It’s followed by “Nine,” and even though Hamilton can barely hear Washington, his voice is sorrowful. _Who’s died?_ Hamilton thinks. His shoulders hurt, but he’s not being struck there. He’s certain of that much. So is his cock, trapped and untouched. “Ten.”

Hamilton blinks and blinks and nearly collapses against the desk. Ten isn’t that many. He’s crying. Just wetness, on his cheeks, against the wood. His fingers ache, all dull pain and then sudden sharpness from behind.

“Eleven,” Washington says, his voice more sturdy now, and the blow might be less hard but Hamilton can hardly tell the difference anymore. “You’re doing so beautifully.”

The thought briefly crosses his mind, and his heart twists and aches for the tiny bit of praise, but he focuses again. This can’t be a disappointment. He can’t let Washington down.

More hushed murmuring. “Twelve.” He registers it sharply. That must be skin that’s left untouched. “Thirteen.” Thirteen is followed by Washington’s breathless whisper, “Fourteen.”

Even with his eyes closed, Hamilton can only see a thick blanket of exquisite blackness. There aren’t any stars to his vision. There’s nothing in his mind but the pain. It isn’t excruciating; it’s beautiful.

“Fifteen.” The final slap hits him and tears a thick growl from Hamilton’s throat. It’s the last thing he remembers before he opens his eyes, blinking hard against the streaming sunlight, and realizes he’s gathered on Washington’s lap.

“You did so well,” he hears murmured against his ear. He groans, then hisses, scrambling so he’s straddling Washington’s thigh. He knows he’s making a mess of Washington’s beautiful black coat, his face pressed against the fabric, but Washington doesn’t say anything, a hand stroking through Hamilton’s hair, another tucked beneath his thighs. He’s thankful for that, because his legs are quivering, and he’d collapse without the help.

Washington kisses him. That’s messy too. Hamilton blinks against the tears and sniffs and Washington whispers, “Shh, shh, it’s alright.”

“I…”

The silence had been so brief, but the euphoria clouds Hamilton’s head. He’s distant, far away. His knuckles clenched in Washington’s jacket aren’t there.

When his mind resettles, when he’s breathing evenly, the first thing he notices are the lazy strokes to his cock.

The realization makes him twitch in Washington’s palm.

“Sir,” he whispers. Then, “Did I…”

“You were perfect,” Washington says. Maybe the topic isn’t up for discussion. Hamilton rests his head in the crook of Washington’s neck, kisses the skin that’s been beared for him there. He isn’t sure when Washington removed the cravat. Maybe he’s been craddled there for longer than he thought.

“Was I loud?” he says. He can’t help asking the question. He needs to know.

The hand not keeping his cock hard hoists Hamilton up a little further. Hamilton adjusts, spreading his legs. There’s still a tingling, burning soreness. His entire body is still hot and it’s not just the air outside and the slight staleness of the room without open windows.

“You were perfect,” Washington says. “There were a couple of moments I was concerned…”

Hamilton shakes his head. “Thank you,” he says. It’s all he can imagine saying. He shivers and rocks his hips forward, then moves his head back to kiss Washington. He considers, for a brief second, asking Washington to stop touching him.

Then he’s also terrified of what will happen when he does.

So instead, he buries his face in Washington’s shoulder, taking deep breaths, exhaling them, creating an almost-rhythm between them. Washington’s fist is still lazy, his strokes aren’t enough to bring Hamilton off. He must know this. His other hand has begun to stroke through Hamilton’s hair, and he’s whispering his name like a ritual, a mantra of some sort.

“Alexander, Alexander, Alexander.”

Then, more softly, “It’s alright, let go.”

He must let go at some point; he doesn’t quite remember it, but when he’s steady again, his cock is soft and Washington is craddling him again, fingers playing at the back of his neck. The tears have dried on Hamilton’s face, and he looks at the off-white handkerchief in Washington’s hand and says nothing, instead just swallowing.

“Sir,” he mutters.

“Alexander,” Washington says again. Hamilton almost misses his last name. Washington says his name - _Alexander_ \- too similarly to Eliza. His voice almost breathless, pleased but tired. She wipes her palms against the front of her dress and kisses him, dragging them together, then whispering his name, all low and long like it’s a prayer on her breath. He hates it, sometimes.

It must be mid-afternoon by now. The softness on the edges of his mind is starting to give way to the many needs he has to attend to.

Washington’s gaze, the crinkle of his eyes, the soft set of his smile. Hamilton hates that, too. 

“You did so well, son.” Washington hasn’t called him that in so long. He sets the thought away, buries it with every other concern that can’t be forefront in his mind, not now, not today.

“I have to go,” he mumbles, unhooking himself from Washington’s lap. Still only half-naked, Washington sitting there composed and fully dressed. Hamilton doesn’t look up as he pulls his breeches back on, spends too much time with buttons and straps. He runs his fingers through his hair, sighs.

“I’ll get him to agree,” Hamilton says. “You know that.”

Washington hums. It borders between, ‘I believe you,’ and completely unconvinced. Hamilton licks his lips; they’re already raw, a little torn, but that doesn’t stop him from dragging his teeth along them, exaggerating what’s already left behind, pieces of skin he wants to cut loose.

“Trust me, sir,” he says. He wants his voice to be louder - he’s barely convincing himself. It isn’t happening. He’s had dreams like this. Trying to scream, but his voice won’t quite do it. The scream is just a whisper. Then, and he says it more softly, with the intent to be quiet, to remind Washington that this is private, only them, no one else - “Thank you.”

“Whatever you need, Alexander.” The man doesn’t give up. His palms are resting on his thighs, his legs still spread like they were when Hamilton was caught between them. Hamilton tears his eyes away, biting back the temptation, resisting (for once) the urge to kneel in front of the commander, please him, make him proud.

“Sir,” Hamilton says again, nodding. His clothes are a little ruffled; even more so than Washington’s. Nothing fits quite right, anymore. The soreness isn’t so bad, though it might get worse with time.

Washington nods, and Hamilton is certain he’ll face these circumstances again.

He straightens his shoulders and feigns confidence as he leaves the president’s office.


End file.
